


The Wine Cart

by Glishara



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glishara/pseuds/Glishara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Count Vorkosigan negotiates with his political adversaries, he always starts with the good wine...</p><p>Written for the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/bujold_fic/">bujold_fic</a> ficathon on LJ, for the prompt "Miles and Count Piotr - anytime but particularly as a small boy"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wine Cart

"—good god, man, you can't expect us to just sit quietly while that twelve-toed bastard rams this down our throats!"

An hour earlier, Miles thought, Count Vorinnis would have stopped talking when the door to the green parlor opened. Now, no one other than Count Vorkosigan even seemed to notice as Esterhazy pushed in the wine cart.

"That 12-toed bastard is my son, Dimitri," Grandfather pointed out. He didn't seem terribly offended to Miles' practiced eye. _He_ had noticed the wine cart, and Miles skulking along in its wake. Though he spoke to Count Vorinnis, his eyes were on Miles, and the wrinkles around his left eye deepened briefly. It wasn't quite a wink: acknowledgment, perhaps? Miles chose to read it as permission, and darted over to a wing-back chair near the fireplace, turned away from the rest of the room.

"Damn it all, Piotr, your boy's gone mad with this authority," Vorinnis said, his cheeks flushing red with more than the brandy. As Miles knelt on the chair, facing the room in almost-concealment, he could see that Vorinnis's glass was empty. Esterhazy whisked away the empty brandy bottle and glasses with his usual quiet efficiency. "You know it's no slight on you."

"Still, I suspect Olivia would have taken some offense." Grandfather's voice was very dry.

"Ah. Well, I didn't – " Vorinnis foundered for a moment in the tangle of his own insults, but found a convenient exit in the glass of Dendarii district wine Esterhazy pressed into his hand.

"Still, Piotr," a more sober Count Vorbretten took over the argument from his intoxicated colleague, "the point remains that he's positioning the issue for his own advantage, as always. Dimitri surely meant no slight on your late wife, but your _son's_ will be the death of us all in the end. We're imported galactic medicine and galactic technology with mixed results, but I hardly think we need to add galactic depravity." Miles hunkered a little lower in his chair, back arching with silent indignation.

"Of course he's positioning it to his advantage," Grandfather said, his gruff voice thick with scorn. "It's a council vote, not a classroom lecture. It's not his job to teach you your work." His glass, Miles noticed, was still nearly full – and it was of port, not the brandy Esterhazy had just disappeared. He touched it to his lips, lowering the level not at all that Miles could see. "If you can't do your part, it's time to give up and let the big boys do your thinking for you."

Vorbretten's jaw clenched, but before he could come to an answer, the fourth man in the room spoke. "I see your point, Piotr, but, give credit to your son, he hasn't sold the damn thing." Count Falco Vorpatril, Miles could see, still held an empty port glass, and firmly ignored Esterhazy's attempt to replace it with a full glass of wine. "How's the thing any good for you and me? He's taking something away and giving nothing in return. You can speak all you want to of abstract justice and the plight of the common man, but that boat will sink in council, and you know it as well as I do. What reason's he giving me or anyone to take a stand against the majority? I've made enemies enough on my own; I'll be damned if I'm going to make more for your son's Betan agenda."

Esterhazy took advantage of a dramatic mid-declamation sweep of Vorpatril's arm to claim the port glass, placing a wine glass by the count's elbow in its place. Vorpatril glowered at the armsman with good humor, then lifted the new glass and drank.

Vorinnis shook his head too hard, like a horse shaking off a fly. He opened his mouth to speak, but Grandfather held up a forestalling hand and spoke to Count Vorpatril. "It's not about enemies, or scoring points, Falco. It's about where we're going. Some are planting their feet to dig in, but the change is generational. My son is the future of the Vorkosigan vote. In thirty years, we'll all be done with the political game, and our children will be burning our offerings and changing our world. We're deciding whether we want to be the stubborn bloc of opposition as we move towards that tomorrow, or whether we'll be part of the conversation. We have a chance now to say, 'Court us; we're listening.'"

#

Count Vorinnis needed an assisting arm from his armsman to make his way out of the room an hour later.

Count Vorbretten paused in the doorway to say, "You'll regret this decision, I think, Piotr. We do our children no favors by throwing in with this. There's progressive, and then there's radical. I don't know if we'll recognize our grandchildren's Barrayar at all."

Count Piotr replied only, "If we can't trust our grandchildren, then who?"

Vorbretten snorted. "Ourselves. Perhaps." He left with a shake of his head.

Count Vorpatril lingered behind a minute. "Skip the final sell, Piotr," he said as Grandfather turned back to him. "You'll see my vote day after tomorrow, when I decide on it." He swirled the dregs in his wineglass, then said, "Just tell me this: was this evening your idea, or his?"

"Mine," Grandfather replied.

Vorpatril grimaced, then drained the wine. "Trust our grandchildren," he muttered. "Damned shifty lot they'll be."

Grandfather bared his teeth in a grin. "We can hope so."

Vorpatril's laugh was a bark. He replaced his wine glass on a side table and turned to go. His eyes rested briefly in passing on the chair in which Miles sat, and he winked. Then he was off. Miles drew back and huddled a bit lower in the chair. How long had he known? The silence hung in the room.

"Boy." Grandfather's voice was sharp. "Get out here."

Miles's shoulders hunched forward for a moment, hidden completely from view. Then he forced them back, jerked his chin up, and stood on the seat of the chair. The added height it gave him put the top on his head at around the level of the count's chin. "Sir," he said, his treble voice sounding particularly young in the space left by all those powerful men.

"Don't go all rigid on me, boy," Grandfather snapped. He was pouring himself a glass of wine, having finished the port. "Get your boots off the damned chair and tell me what you heard here."

Miles carefully lowered himself to his knees and climbed backwards off the stairs, cautious of the weakness in his brittle bones. Only once he was down of the floor did he hurry, moving quickly around the chair. He'd bought himself a few seconds to think, but he wasn't sure how much good they'd done him. "Sir?" he asked. "You saw me come in with the wine cart, I know. I didn't fall asleep." He didn't think this was what his grandfather had meant, and the narrowing of the old man's eyes confirmed it.

"I didn't ask you what the men said. I asked you what you heard. Sit, boy." Grandfather jerked his chin at the chair Count Vorbretten had been occupying and reclaimed his own seat.

"What I heard?" Miles didn't move to the chair right away. Instead, he moved to pick up Count Vorbretten's almost-empty wineglass and peered thoughtfully at the splash of burgundy liquid in the bottom.

"Horse piss," Grandfather said. "If you want wine, boy, ask me, and I'll give you some from a decent bottle. He was too far gone to care by the end there."

Miles put the glass back down and sat, placing his hands on his knees and straightening his spine as much as possible.

Grandfather sighed. "You'll be Count Vorkosigan someday, boy. God knows I didn't ask for it, but it's there, and I've come resigned to it. Getting to know that idiot Ivan a little better helped, I expect; I've no yearning for an heir like Vortashpula has. But if you're going to do the job, you are going to be able to do it well. You've got brains in your head, and I expect you to use them. You listened to the same conversation I listened to. Tell me what you heard."

Miles sat a moment, turning this over in his head. "Count Vorpatril is a friend of yours, sir," he said at last.

"Yes," Grandfather said simply, declining to lead him.

"But he doesn't really like the bill, because he thinks it's a first step to something else. My father wants it to be." Miles thought about it a minute. "I like it, though. It's basically saying that officers should become officers for what they do, not who they are, and that makes sense. In the service, lives depend on that. It will help Count Vorpatril next time the Cetagandans test our space, because he'll be better defended. With better men in place, the same military force will be cheaper, too, because there will be fewer soldiers needed to do the same job." Miles was warming to the subject now.

Count Vorkosigan listened, his thin face craggy and impenetrable. "You like it, then, boy."

"Yes." Miles spoke decisively. "I do."

"It will serve you poorly. I've seen you watching the military men your father's dragged through here, and sitting in with my friends when we get to reminiscing. You think a rank-blind service will put you in uniform?"

Miles sat very still. He hadn't thought of that, it was true, and the ramifications spiraled in his mind. His grandfather sat silently while he processed it, watching Miles's face without sympathy or condemnation: measuring.

Had Miles a chance under the current laws? Probably, with his father and grandfather who they were. He might be shuffled out of the way, but he would have that chance at the academy, a chance to show what he could do. Use me! his soul cried to out Barrayar. But how many other men and women out there wanted the same chance, needed the same chance? Their hearts resonated with the same cry, drowning out his own desperate need.

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said stubbornly. "If it's a fair judgment, then I'll accept it." Or work my way around it, he added silently. He could fight it, if it came to it. Could those multitudes whose voices rang along with his? "But," he added, the deeper meaning of the conversation sinking in, "don't you like it, sir? You were trying to talk those other counts into voting for it."

Grandfather grimaced and tried a sip of his wine, rolling it on his tongue before answering. "It's a damned shame, to my eyes. But I owe your father on it, and I'll do my best. It's true what I said to young Falco, too. Sentiment is shifting. We are the old guard, and the best way to ensure you'll be shut out of decision-making entirely is to refuse to yield on any point at all. Falco's probably right that this won't pass, and if it doesn't, our votes are only a statement to the minority: we're worth your effort. Think of us when you consider how far to go." He shrugged, a twitch of one shoulder. "What do you think they'll do?"

"I think you knew Vorinnis would never vote for it. I think you asked him so it would seem like a balanced argument that you'd always win, because he's an idiot and drinks too much."

Grandfather flashed him a sudden grin, unexpected in the serious conversation. "Good eyes. Go on."

"Count Vorpatril wants something in return," Miles said thoughtfully. "He was digging to see what you might offer, and you were refusing to give anything. He might go to Father."

"And what will the Regent say?"

"I think –" Miles started to respond immediately, then made himself stop and think about the question. "I think," he said more slowly, "it depends on how close he's getting. If he's near the 30-vote line, he'll do what he has to do to get the vote. This is the kind of issue that will really matter to him. If he's not, he'll keep it vague. He likes keeping it vague. The gratitude of a Regent, or whatever. He'd like Count Vorpatril on board, but the symbolism isn't worth a lot without the results, not right now."

"It may be worth more than you think, on this one," Grandfather said. "Ask your father sometime whether Falco talked to him, and what he said. Or what he would say, if they haven't spoken."

Miles frowned, thinking this over, then placed it in the back of his mind to turn, like meat on a spit. He'd figure it out later, or ask his father. Why would it matter…?

"Keep to this conversation for now, boy. Rene Vorbretten."

"He's progressive," Miles said, starting with the obvious. "But Lord Vorbretten is in the military, and his son Rene wants to join up, too. They've got a long tradition, and…" He trailed off, turning it over. "I think Count Vorbretten doesn't want the service to change. He liked what it was, and he wanted his son and grandson to have the same experiences."

"Ah," Grandfather said, a frustratingly neutral noise. Miles wasn't sure whether it represented approval, disapproval, or gas. He fought the urge to babble on to some critical miscalculation, keeping himself rooted in logical thought.

"I know my father likes Lord Vorbretten. Does Count Vorbretten think that his son's career might be slowed by this? If it sets a precedent in the academy… if there is suddenly a bigger pool of candidates, there will be more, better-qualified men. He might be worried that people will assume non-Vor candidates are automatically better than officers who were around before there was new competition. If new men are jumped up the ranks, it could slow promotion of other officers."

"Hm."

"I don't think he'll vote yes unless he thinks it will pass without him and he'll be left behind. He's about as old as you can be and not remember the Cetagandan Invasion, right?"

"Born during it," his grandfather acknowledged.

"And I don't think – from the way he was talking about his service, I don't think he was ever in combat. So he's got the whole backlog of history and tradition in the military, and a sense of pride in the current system, without the reality of war the same way you do, or officers like my father, who've actually seen the cost of war and will want to save lives any way possible."

Grandfather sat a moment in silence, weighing this. "You may be right, there," he said, his voice slow and thoughtful. "It may be worth putting him in touch with some allies who have fought on the line. I'll invite his sometime to one of my dinners with Vorhovis and Vorlakial. I've enough stories… with the political edge taken off, he may hear them."

He sipped from his wine again, his eyes distant. Miles shifted in his seat a little, fidgety and uncertain. Had he said anything right? Wrong? At the motion, Grandfather's attention came back from wherever it had been wandering. "We may yet make something of you, boy," he said. "Run off to bed."

Miles slid from the chair, wavering between exhilaration and relief. He bowed properly and said, "Good night, sir."

He hadn't quite reached the door before his grandfather stopped him. "And boy?"

He turned back. "Sir?"

"Tomorrow night, they won't be bringing the wine cart. See if you can come up with a better plan."

Miles flashed a grin. "Yes, sir!" he said.

"Now get," Count Vorkosigan said with a wave of one hand.

Miles got.


End file.
